


Trouble comes in threes

by everythingremainsconnected



Series: It takes three spies... [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Morning After, Multi, Oral Sex, are better than coffee, gaby just wants coffee and avoiding feelings, other things do tho, plot doesn't really come into it, she gets neither of these things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingremainsconnected/pseuds/everythingremainsconnected
Summary: Gaby isn't a huge fan of having feelings, but having two (2) handsome men might be worth the mortifying ordeal of being known.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Series: It takes three spies... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609582
Comments: 16
Kudos: 140





	Trouble comes in threes

It was probably morning. Almost definitely. Weak and watery English light dribbled through the crack in the curtains and Gaby sighed, finally giving up on sleep. Raising her head to look at the clock Illya kept on his nightstand, she was quietly impressed; she had slept until almost 5am. She carefully rolled over and saw both Illya and Solo asleep, wrapped up in one another, all tangled long limbs and gorgeous slumbering relaxation.

“How?” Gaby scowled at the pair of them: beautiful, soft, _very_ naked, and annoyingly sound asleep. She envied them. Being awake meant remembering the things she’d said - and meant - but now would very much like to run away from. Something like embarrassment burned in her gut. 

Gaby slipped out from under the covers and saw exactly none of her own clothes on the bed… or the floor. She found Solo’s shirt and pulled it around her shoulders before sneaking out. Neither of them stirred. 

The reality of the situation attempted to crash in on Gaby as she stared at the coffee machine. Champion compartmentaliser that she was, she ignored her inner panic in favour of studying the contraption. She’d never bothered to learn how to use it because Solo was always in the kitchen before her, crafting coffees and working some sort of culinary magic with bread and butter and eggs and things in jars and packets that always added up to something amazing. She wanted that easiness back. 

Her stomach growled. She wanted coffee. And breakfast, too. She stared at the machine again and squared her shoulders. She could rebuild entire car engines from scratch. A coffee machine would _not_ defeat her. 

“Do not,” came Illya’s soft warning. 

“Don’t what?” Gaby said quickly. She folded her arms over her chest and looked at Illya in the doorway, finding he was wearing only his trousers, and hadn’t bothered doing them up properly. Soft hair trailed from his bellybutton _downward_ and Gaby knew, now, just how soft that hair was and the noise he made when she investigated its inevitable destination... She cleared her throat and managed to look up to his sleepy face. “What?” 

“I said, do not even try.” Illya carefully did not smile. “No one can use this beast except _him_. Sit, I will make Moka pot.” 

“Mocking what?” 

Illya smiled and carefully pulled an odd shaped silver pot out of a cupboard. “Moka pot. Real coffee, not this bastard American mess.” 

“You drink Solo’s coffee every morning. It cannot be that bad.” 

“It is drinkable. So is pond water when you are thirsty.” 

Gaby snorted. “I’m telling him you said that.” 

“I have already told him.” 

“Of course you have.” Gaby went to the fridge and stared into it, all the better to avoid staring at shirtless Illya and the way his trousers hung so low on his hips. 

“Are things… ok?” 

Gaby flinched. She glanced at Illya over the top of the fridge door and found him staring intently at the coffee pot. “What?” 

“You are avoiding me.” 

“Well, _you_ are the one making meaningful eye contact with a stove pot thing.” 

Illya smiled at the pot in question. “I do not want to scare you away.” 

“Who said anything about being scared?” Gaby scoffed. She closed the fridge. It was not quite the brave statement she had somehow imagined it would be. 

“My mistake.” Illya’s smile faded and he moved to finish doing up his trousers. 

Gaby made a frustrated squeak before she remembered she was avoiding anything resembling honesty about her feelings. Illya heard it - damn his supernatural hearing - and left the top button undone. He busied himself with ground coffee and measuring things, looking for all the world like an ordinary man making coffee before work, not the deadly spy Gaby knew him to be. The total lack of shirt was a welcome change to their routine, she realised. The view of either man - or both of them, together, preferably - in the kitchen in less clothes than normal was something she could look forward to, and it hit her like a freight train… 

“I am not scared,” Gaby tried again, with slightly more certainty. She looked at the kitchen bench a foot to the left of where Illya stood. “I am… cautious.” 

“You are insomniac.” 

“That is not news.” 

“I thought maybe you would sleep better after…” Illya’s stubbled cheeks went pink. 

Gaby found herself itching to run her fingers across that stubble and see if she could make him turn the delightful shade of red he’d been several times the night before. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes not.” 

“I see.” 

Strongly suspecting he didn’t, Gaby sighed. “I just want coffee, not a twenty minute show. Solo’s would be finished by now.” 

“ _Solo_ would be finished by now.” 

“Was that - my god, Illya, did you just - was that a dirty joke?” 

“I think so, yes.” 

Gaby laughed quietly. “Well, can you blame him? You are a man of hidden talents.” 

“I have good teacher. _Teachers_.” Illya continued playing with the coffee, busily looking anywhere except at Gaby. “What else is there to teach?” 

It was Gaby’s turn to blush faintly. “I’m sure we can think of something.” 

“Good.” Illya nodded satisfactorily at the coffee making situation. “This is Solo’s shirt?” 

“Yes,” Gaby answered too quickly, “I don’t know where my clothes went.” 

“I will find them, launder them. I apologise for my actions. I was… overexcited.” 

The formal lilt to his apology made Gaby smile, as did the memories of exactly how her clothes were discarded - strewn, even - as things escalated at breakneck speeds. “You don’t have to apologise, Illya. Our apartment isn’t that big to lose anything, I just found this first.” 

“When you ran from my bedroom?” 

“I told you, I did not run. I walked at a normal pace for an unholy hour of morning.” 

“It is nice on you. But I think my uh, you know, pulling-over - sweater - will look better.” 

“Competitive, aren’t you?” 

Illya smirked and readied coffee cups. “Is not competition, is simple fact. Soft lines flatter face, here,” he gestured to his own bristly jaw, “better than harsh collar. Especially so early in morning.” 

“Is that right?” 

“Yes.” Illya poured two coffees and placed them by Gaby on the countertop. “Soft here, too,” he said softly, brushing the hem of Solo’s shirt against her legs, “soft here is… nice.” 

“If you don’t like the shirt,” Gaby said, her fingertips gliding across Illya’s hands, “perhaps you should do something about it.” She took Illya’s hands in hers and helped him push the hem up to dangerous heights. He let her guide him, only moving precisely where she decided he should go, his eyes fixed firmly on the open collar of her shirt. 

“Should we - Napoleon?” 

“Mm, we will,” Gaby murmured, “in a minute. I think last night we gave him too much of a show. We don’t want him getting spoiled.” She led Illya’s hands upward to cup her ass. He squeezed her curves and gulped. 

“You are right,” he said softly, looking as serious as he ever did. “I think… perhaps I should practice part of this show. For when Napoleon wakes up.” 

“Which part, exactly?” 

Illya’s gaze dipped all the way down to the bottom of the shirt, which was now conveniently around Gaby’s navel. He smiled slightly. “I liked this part.” 

“Oh?” 

“I think I can improve on last night.” Illya looked into Gaby’s eyes and his smile faded, replaced by something like actual tenderness. “If you will let me.” 

Gaby hesitated and that one second was all it took for Illya to retreat. Her heart dropped. “No, Illya, wait.” She grabbed at his hands again and pulled him close. “I want you to - _very_ much - but I think I should shower first. Last night was so busy, and there’s a lot of… with this anatomy if you don’t bathe, it doesn’t… I want it to be nice for you. And not embarrassing for me.” 

“Nothing about your body is embarrassing. You are beautiful.” 

“And I also like to _smell_ beautiful,” Gaby hinted even as she blushed. 

Illya considered this for a moment before coming in close and touching his nose to the side of her neck. He breathed in deeply and his exhale tickled her, making her shiver. “Smell fine to me,” he said before kissing her neck. She shivered again and he pressed another kiss to her throat. 

“Give me two minutes,” Gaby said, weakly pulling away from Illya. “Wait right here. Don’t move. Two minutes.” She ran to the larger of the two bathrooms and turned the shower taps all the way on. 

Gaby pulled the shirt over her head and stepped under the scalding spray, washing herself as quickly as physically possible before shutting off the taps and running a towel across herself. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Gaby paused. She had spent most of her life in total command of her body for the sake of her sport, but found that her self-control didn’t stand a chance against what Napoleon and Illya offered. Caution be damned; she wanted every promise Illya and Napoleon had made to her, and to each other. 

Donning Napoleon’s shirt once again, Gaby attempted to walk calmly to the kitchen, unbuttoning the garment as she went. Illya was standing exactly where she’d left him and he didn’t bother hiding his relief when he saw her. 

Gaby smiled coyly. “What, you didn’t think I was coming back?” 

“I worry this is all a dream.” 

“Not a dream.” Gaby got closer to him, not bothering to close the shirtfront. She rested her palms against his chest, giving the bruised shoulder a wide berth, trailing her hands down his stomach to the zip of his trousers. He was breathing slowly, his shoulders tense, and Gaby recognised his best efforts at self-control. “Illya?” 

“Hm?” 

“Are you trying to stay calm?” 

“Mm.” 

Gaby pulled Illya with her as she walked backward into the bench. She let go of his hands to open the shirt she wore, grinning at the catch in his breath. “What if I don’t want you to stay calm right now?” 

Illya flexed his hands by his sides, the movement drawing Gaby’s attention to the tightness of his trousers. “I do not want to hurt you.” 

“You didn’t hurt me last night. Why are you worried now?” 

“Napoleon.” 

“What?” 

“Last night, Napoleon was there. He would… he would stop me if I went too far.” Illya gulped. “I have never wanted someone so much.” 

Gaby’s heart softened and twenty-four hours ago she would have hated herself for it, but now all she wanted to do was comfort him. “Wanting me won’t hurt me. Not giving me what I want, on the other hand,” she said with a dangerous smile, “that could be dangerous for you.” 

“You will tell me if I… if anything-” 

“I promise,” Gaby whispered. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “It is ok to want, Illya, and more than that, it is ok to _act_ like you want something.” She paused and looked down. “It’s nice for me to feel like you want this.” 

“I was raised to be good communist boy. Or maybe bad communist, now. I have never been good at wanting.” Illya tried a smile. “I need to practice many things for you. And for Napoleon.” 

“There’s no time like the present.” Gaby leaned in close. She pressed her lips to Illya’s, enjoying the lazy kissing as it warmed her from the inside out. She had to pull him in, feel the warmth of his body against her; digging her nails into his shoulders Gaby encouraged him closer, letting out a tiny happy sigh when he obliged. The bone-deep _need_ was growing, encouraged most definitely by Illya’s tongue and warmth of him, and the delicious way he smelled of her - and Napoleon. 

Illya carefully pushed her against the bench and broke away to kiss a line of sweet fire down her neck, making her shiver. His soft kisses danced along her shoulder, pushing the shirt aside, and it took all of three seconds for the gentleness to drive her insane. She _wanted_ , the entirety of her wanted him, and the coy dainty touch of him was nowhere near enough. 

“More,” Gaby ordered. She fisted her hands in his hair and pulled. 

“Be patient,” Illya muttered as he teased her, his hands feather-light across her ass and hips. 

“No.” 

“I need practice.” 

“I need _you_ ,” Gaby refuted, trying to roll her hips into his and all but growling her frustration when he didn’t meet her movement. 

“So bossy.” Illya bit down on Gaby’s shoulder and sucked against her skin, increasing the pressure when she pulled his hair again. “You can boss Napoleon,” he said between bites, “and you can boss me most of the time, but right now?” Illya’s kisses moved to Gaby’s throat. “Right now, I think it is my turn to boss you.” 

Before Gaby could get a word in, Illya’s kissing efforts dipped to her breasts and she gasped. Fire raced straight down her body and she pulled his hair as her body sought him, sought any friction at all, which was not at all sated by Illya’s light touches along the inside of her thigh. She whimpered, too desperate for _anything_ to resolve her need to be bothered by something like pride. 

Illya pulled away, his eyes dark. “Sit.” 

“You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“Sit,” Illya repeated, the edge of his mouth curling up in a tense smile, “and I will do exactly what you want.” 

Gaby pressed her thighs together and easily lifted herself up onto the bench. “Promise?” 

“I promise.” Illya pushed her shirt open and couldn’t mask the hunger on his face. He touched his hand to the inside of her knee and slowly moved up the length of her thigh. With a last wicked glance, Illya knelt before her and kissed the inside of her thigh, teasing with such confidence that made Gaby want to scream. 

“I swear to god, if you don’t- _scheiße_ , Illya…” Gaby leaned back and forgot how to be mad at someone whose tongue was so cursedly talented. He found her rhythm easily, faster than he had the night before, and he pulled her legs over his shoulders as he teased her. “Illya, your injury- _oh god_ ,” Gaby broke off with a moan, thoroughly distracted from any and all worldly concerns. He might have laughed at her a little, or maybe it was a stifled groan, but Gaby didn’t care, _couldn’t_ care, nothing mattered so much as the man between her thighs… not even the ringing phone. “Don’t you dare,” she said quickly, pressing her heels into Illya’s back. 

Illya looked up at her, swapping his tongue for his fingers long enough to say, “But is UNCLE phone-” 

“Napoleon, be a dear and get the phone?” Gaby called out, her voice _almost_ totally normal. Illya didn’t wait for Napoleon to answer before he resettled himself between her thighs. She barely drew breath before a gasp escaped her and Illya reached up to cover her mouth. 

“He answered phone,” Illya whispered, “be quiet.” 

“Don’t you tell me to - _scheiße, mein gott_ \- Illya, _bitte_ -” 

“Shh,” Illya murmured and covered her mouth again, using his own to distract her long enough so she’d forget to be mad at him. 

Gaby was dimly aware of his strategy but was too caught up in her own burning pleasure to give a damn. She looked down at him and moaned against his hand; he was beautiful enough in everyday life but to see him like _this_ \- no wonder Napoleon hadn’t been able to last after watching this the night before. 

Movement in the doorway caught Gaby’s eye. Napoleon stood as if frozen, garbed only in rumpled trousers, holding the phone receiver to his ear as its cord drew taught. His cheeks went bright pink. Gaby caught his eye and shifted Illya’s hand from her mouth to cup her breast, grinning all the while. 

“Don’t stop,” Gaby whispered in warning. Illya looked up, followed her gaze, and moaned against her. 

“You know,” Napoleon said into the phone, keeping his voice light, “I have just walked into the most ridiculous mess in the kitchen. Gaby and Peril just cannot be left unattended. I’ll have to call you back.” He left briefly, slamming the phone into its cradle with enough force to be heard rooms away. 

“Napoleon!” Gaby called. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

He reappeared almost immediately. “I had to disconnect the phone.” 

“Smart choice, Cowboy,” Gaby praised him. “Get over here - _oh god_ , Illya, _don’t stop_.” 

Napoleon did as he was told, standing beside Gaby and running his fingers through Illya’s hair. “Talk about breakfast of champions,” he said, his voice low. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Gaby managed between gasps, “I’m close, _so close_ , if you ruin this I’ll - Illya - _bitte_ -” 

Napoleon kissed her roughly as he played with Illya’s hair, and when Gaby moaned into his mouth he thought he might die in the best possible way. He recognised the rising pitch of her muffled cries, the way she lost her rhythm with him and her grip in his hair grew painful, and fought to keep himself steady. Any plans went out the window when Illya reached for his aching cock and he moaned. 

Gaby broke the kiss as she tensed, leaning back, pleading, “Yes, _yes_ , Illya-” 

“Oh fuck,” Napoleon muttered, torn between watching Gaby falling to her inevitable end and encouraging Illya to help him find his. Illya’s hands were rough and distracted and Napoleon was a lost cause. He watched as she rocked her hips against Illya and her screams made his knees went weak. 

“Please, _please_ , don’t stop - yes - there, _oh scheiße_ -” Gaby buried her face in Napoleon’s shoulder, clamping her teeth down hard to muffle her screams as pleasure raged over her body. For long moments she was nothing but pure bliss, her entire existence anchored only by Illya’s face between her thighs and Napoleon’s hand in her hair. It was those twin sensations that brought her back to earth, smiling hopelessly at the both of them. 

Illya slowly pulled away from Gaby as she trembled, tracing careful fingers across her to draw out more aftershocks. He grinned at her shivering gasps, utterly smitten, before he turned his dangerous gaze to Napoleon. He slowly unzipped Napoleon’s straining pants, seemingly content to stay on his knees for the rest of the morning. 

“Illya, what are you doing?” 

Gaby laughed weakly. “I _think_ he’s going to-” 

“Are you sure?” Napoleon’s voice was strangled by his raging lust. 

“Maybe you should ask him?” Gaby laughed again at the determination she saw on Illya’s face. 

“But last night… you said you didn’t feel ready...” 

“Last night,” Illya said carefully, “I did not know how much I like to see you like this.” 

“Like what?” 

Illya finally got the last of Napoleon’s zip down and bit his lip at the _delicious_ sight before him. “Wanting. Wanting _me_.” 

Gaby pulled Napoleon’s hair, warning him, “Do not look a gift horse in the eye.” 

“It’s ‘in the mouth’, Gabs.” 

“It’s about to be,” Gaby shot back wickedly. She watched Illya take Napoleon into his mouth and grinned at Napoleon’s surprised gasp. “He’s got to practice, don’t you, Illya? Hum twice for yes, once for no.” She heard him humming in agreement and the effect it had on Napoleon was undeniable; his head fell back, his fingers tightened their grip on Illya’s hair, and he swallowed hard. 

“Did you put him up to this?” Napoleon asked, fighting to keep his tone light. 

“Illya, hum twice for yes, once for no.” Gaby heard the single hum and a rush went through her. “See? He’s practicing being a bad communist. Let him want this.” Illya hummed twice more and Napoleon pushed into his mouth, making Illya cough. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Napoleon stammered and tried to pull away. Illya grumbled and held Napoleon in place, his strong grip resting on the curve of Napoleon’s ass. 

“Jesus, Napoleon, don’t choke him. Be careful.” 

Illya leaned back, gently stroking Napoleon as he thought. “Do you like it? To hear the choking?” 

Napoleon’s hips rolled forward of their own volition. He cleared his throat, struggling to think with Illya’s hand wrapped around him. “Why would you ask that?” 

“I hear soldiers talk like this sometimes. About the things they would do, or say they would do, with their lovers. Is it something real people like, hearing this choke noise?” 

“Leaving aside for the moment that you don’t think soldiers are real people-” Napoleon paused for breath when Illya’s mouth returned to his cock, warm and maddening, “yes, sometimes,” he breathed, “especially if it’s you. Either one of you.” He groaned as Illya took him deeper. 

“Don’t hurt yourself, Illya,” Gaby said softly. “And don’t throw up on him. That’s not very sexy.” Illya laughed and coughed, his movements making Napoleon groan once again. “Illya, do you remember how I did that last night? Hum twice for yes.” The double hum sent shivers down her spine, and Napoleon’s too. 

“What are you talking about?” Napoleon asked, daring to glance at Gaby. “It’s all kind of a blur- _shit_ , Illya,” he moaned as Illya’s hand wrapped around the length that his mouth couldn’t reach. “You’re a goddamn natural.” 

“Isn’t he just?” Gaby crooned. She leaned in to kiss Napoleon’s neck, teasing him with scrapes of her teeth and dragging her fingernails across his torso. 

“You’re both going to kill me, and you know, I don’t even care. God, Illya, _yes_ , just like that,” Napoleon praised, his hands in Gaby and Illya’s hair as they ruined him. He rolled his hips into Illya’s rhythm, his lust spiking when Illya made that gorgeous sound around him. “Gaby, can you...” 

“Use your words,” she muttered, still kissing his neck, “you always seem to have so many of them.” 

“Harder,” Napoleon whispered. 

“Hm?” 

“Do it harder. Please.” 

Gaby shifted to meet his gaze and tenderly cupped his cheek. He was a wreck already, panting between strangled gasps, his eyes dark and… scared. With a man at his feet and a mostly naked woman in his arms, Gaby had not ever imagined this would be the most vulnerable she’d ever seen him. 

“Anything you want,” she said softly. “You’re safe with us. Isn’t that right, Illya?” He hummed in agreement and she smiled as Napoleon shivered. “You’re safe with us. I promise.” She kissed him gently before moving to do as he asked, clamping her teeth down on his flesh and sucking at the same time, doing her damn best to bruise him. She was rewarded with a low groan and heat rushed through her. 

“Don’t stop, _don’t stop_ ,” Napoleon growled between clenched teeth, “just like that, _just… fuck!_ ” He stuttered against Illya’s rhythm and groaned, white-hot pleasure cascading across his body as Illya swallowed him down. It was a long moment before his sense returned and he heaved a satisfied sigh. “Holy shit. What a start to the day.” He wilted against Gaby and the bench she sat on. 

“I could get used to this,” Illya said matter-of-factly. He sat back on his heels and gazed up at the two of them, spent and happy because of _him_ , and thought his heart might explode. His cock certainly wanted to. 

“Illya, would you come up here please?” Napoleon asked, his polite tone only marred by the blissed out exhaustion. He held out his hands and pulled Illya to his feet. “You’ve had quite the productive morning.” He kissed the smug smile off Illya’s face, drawing the taste of himself and Gaby from Illya’s willing lips. He reached down, lazily stroking Illya through his trousers. It didn’t take long for Illya to push into Napoleon’s touch. 

“Don’t be greedy,” Gaby said, her voice low. She reached for Illya, pulling him from Napoleon’s kiss in order to steal some for herself. His finesse disappeared when Gaby heard the zip on his trousers come open and she breathed a happy sigh. 

Illya broke away from the kiss with a strangled gasp, his eyes screwed shut. “Cowboy, I - it is-” he stilled, desperately searching for calm. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“Never,” Illya growled, abandoning calm to glare at Napoleon. 

Napoleon grinned wickedly and slowly licked his hand before reaching for Illya once again. Illya groaned as he watched Napoleon stroke him, picking up the pace as he thrust against that grip; normally such a simple touch wouldn’t have entirely destroyed him, but bringing not one but _two_ people to crashing pleasure was more than his body could bear. 

“Faster,” Illya whispered. Napoleon moaned and obeyed, and when Gaby kissed his neck, it was over in a haze of gasping breath and cresting pleasure. He shuddered against Napoleon, gripping his shoulder as his strength flew out of him. Eventually he opened his eyes, blinking stars from his vision, and saw Napoleon spattered in his mess. “Sorry.” 

“What the hell for?” Napoleon asked, genuinely surprised. 

Illya’s cheeks went pink and he looked at Napoleon’s sticky… everything. It really had gone almost everywhere. “I did not mean to make this mess. Let me clean-” 

“Illya, hush,” Gaby soothed him, playing with his hair and stealing a kiss. “A little mess is worth it. Did you ever think that maybe Napoleon likes it?” 

“Am I that transparent?” 

“Entirely. It is really very endearing.” Gaby grinned. 

“I am _not_ endearing,” Napoleon argued. He leaned in to kiss Gaby. “I am suave, collected, some might say chic-” 

“I think there’s some in your hair,” Gaby giggled. Napoleon reached up and found the mess in question did, in fact, extend to his hair. He roared laughing, falling into her and patting Illya’s chest carefully. 

Illya pressed his hands to his face, forgetting where they’d been in the last half hour, and groaned. “Shower. Now.” 

“Who?” Gaby asked, still laughing. 

“Both of you. All of us.” Illya ushered the two of them toward the larger bathroom. The shower would _barely_ fit two people, especially if he was one of those two. Watching Napoleon and Gaby strip down - something Illya had fantasised about in many quiet moments - he blurted out, “Can we request bigger shower?” Under the matching curious stares of his lovers, Illya blushed. “I will not fit with you both. I would like to.” 

“Tell you what,” Napoleon began, “let’s destroy this tiny little room, blame it on a fit of rage, and request some specific changes in the rebuild.” 

“You can’t just destroy a bathroom,” Gaby protested. 

“Flimsy English construction, shouldn’t take more than five minutes,” Illya assessed soberly. 

“And how would you know?” 

Illya reached around Gaby and lightly tapped a tile by the shower head. He caught it when it fell. “I did this last week.” 

“How?” 

“Was tired. I slipped.” 

Napoleon climbed under the hot water and watched Illya steadily, noting and certainly enjoying the way Illya stared at the water coursing over his body. “I’ve seen you practically fainting from blood loss and able to maintain deadly accuracy with a weapon. Are you sure you were tired?” 

“What are you talking about? What’s that look for?” Gaby asked, pushing Napoleon out of the way to enjoy the hot water. 

“Well let’s see,” Napoleon said, his voice low and his eyes gleaming, “if I were Illya, and if I were _tired_ and wanting to lean against the shower wall,” he carefully arranged himself to bracket Gaby against the wall and stole a quick kiss, “that would put my hand right about here.” He reached to place his palm beside the broken tile. 

Gaby snorted. “Are you doing a reenactment?” 

“I am. Leaning here would mean the water hitting his chest, rather than my shoulder, and would free up one hand…” Napoleon reached for his cock and flashed a filthy look to Illya. The poor man was bright red and mesmerised. 

“Oh dear,” Gaby said softly, looking from Illya to Napoleon and back before she grinned. “Flimsy English construction indeed.” Illya buried his face in his hands again. 

“Peril, get in here and tell us _all about_ how _tired_ you were when you broke the shower. Maybe - in an hour or two - we can find out if you can get so _tired_ again.” 

Illya glared but there was no real heat to it. “What makes you think I was thinking of you?” 

“Well if you weren’t, frankly, I’m going to be wholly offended.” 

“Shut up,” Gaby said easily, “and move over. Illya needs to shower too. We don’t have to be the centre of someone’s imaginary world, you know.” 

Illya managed to squeeze himself between Napoleon and Gaby, barely catching any of the shower’s spray but not caring all that much. “I was thinking about you,” he admitted, forcing himself to sound carefree mostly because he wanted to see what it would do to them, but a small part of him was still scared about admitting what he wanted. Napoleon’s hands came to rest on his hips before pressing a gentle kiss to his sore shoulder. 

“Now I want to know how you broke the shower,” Gaby said with a smile. 

“Was not whole shower, just one tile. Maybe two. Three at most.” Illya swallowed, hard. “Maybe just do not touch the tile above your head. Is safer that way.” 

Gaby laughed and kissed him, very glad she hadn’t run anywhere except into two big idiots who seemed to be happy with her, even if trying to shower with the pair of them was physically impossible.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
